


but not today

by teavious



Category: The Arcana (Visual Novel)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon Related, Character Study, F/M, Familiars, Fluff and Angst, Forehead Kisses, Hugs, Kissing, Magic, Magic-Users, Memory Loss, Relationship Study, Sleeping Together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-02
Updated: 2018-01-02
Packaged: 2019-02-27 11:08:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13246944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teavious/pseuds/teavious
Summary: She tries to remember why she owns things she doesn’t remember buying or receiving, why some of the books she picks up from the shelves for the first time in her life bear her name in her own handwriting on the front page. She fights off headaches on her own, on the bathroom floor gluing her forehead to the cold tiles. She suffers, but with no results.





	but not today

**Author's Note:**

> It's been like 14 hours since I started playing this game and yes, I did wrote a fic for it already, bite me. I would literally die for Asra at any point during the day, and he deserves more love, full stop!!

She can tell, nowadays, when the day of his leaving approaches. Or maybe he’s not just as careful about hiding it, but either way, she knows. Part of it it’s because it feels like bribery, like the baker promising cinnamon rolls to his daughter right before he takes her to the doctor, or the young boy promising one more kiss to his lover if they finish their work early. So, days and even weeks before she’ll wake up in the morning and find him gone, Asra comes to her with flowers in his arms or expensive seasoning for their dinners. Once he brought her a new shawl, but afterwards he was gone for weeks with no sign of living in-between.

She’d be pleased with nothing at all, if it’d keep him close. She knows it’s selfish and ungrateful, given how her whole life is thanks to him, but she can’t help thinking like this. At times, even the sight of clients angers her, taking up of the precious time she gets to have with her master. She berates herself while she busies her hands with mixtures, and she allows her mouth to run off to poor Faust, half-asleep in Asra’s hat, on top of his mountain of pillows.

There are other signs, but – she doesn’t really know how to read them. So much more confusing than a card deck, and she finds herself running around meanings, never settling for one. If asked (because it remains a matter of if she will ever be brave enough to be truly honest with him), Asra might even answer her, or at least give her that first second of unfiltered reaction, and she’d know. She’d know, because it’s him and if there’s someone who would know, it’s only her, _right?_

There are other signs – like his gentle gestures towards her, kinder than she remembers them each time. How his hands go through her hair in the summer evenings, checking if it’s properly dried before allowing her to go on night’s errands. The way he grins at her in the mornings when she comes to wake him up, the way he pats the mattress next to him – and his sigh as she turns scarlet under his inviting gaze, but turns around slamming the door anyway. When he is really tired, he accepts her help, her hands careful as she helps him out of his shirt, voice tender as she gives him orders through the closed door of the bathroom.

If he sometimes forgets who she is, she can’t really blame him. Not when it results in him holding on to her wrist, whispering pleas before eventually falling asleep. Not when it allows her the intimate moments when she can cross her fingers through his hair, test for herself the softness she wonders about throughout the day. In the crowded rows of the market, his fingers curled around her elbow and his chest at her back almost feel like a hug, and she tends to enjoy the feeling of his closeness, knowing him to just _be_ there next to her.

It’s the domestic activities that pick her undone the most. When she presses the leaves between her fingers before dropping them in boiling water for tea; at a certain point in time, and she envisions a brighter, happier Asra standing in the chair where her worried master sits. When during the days when he leaves on short trips and leaves Faust behind, she has to gently push the snake off his pillow, only to take his place and in the familiar smell of that man. When during evenings he reads, sprawled on his pillows, face relaxed.

She tries something, one slow afternoon, the lights dancing in the bottles in their shop.

“Asra,” she says, mouth so wide on the vowels, like she’s swallowing what he means to her whole only through his name.

He raises his head from his card deck, mouth agape and the most painful expression she’s ever seen on his face.

“What did you say?” he asks, unsure, scrambling to get up from the desk, stepping closer to her, one hand already reaching towards her.

She takes a few steps, stumbles with her back into shelves, but Asra seems not to have noticed. “I’m sorry, maybe I shouldn’t have – “

This stops him: the uncertainty, the formality. She has never seen a man so flustered, so obviously crushed. He still covers the distance between them, allows his fingers to touch her neck, her jaw, her cheek. Asra eventually rests his palm over her eyes, leans so close he can feel her breath at his collarbone, brushes his lips against her forehead.

She can feel the magic, fizzling out before it fulfills its purpose. Asra is hurried, releases her too soon, paces around the store, but with no drive behind his purpose. He still disturbs Faust from where she lazes around on the windowsill, moves her in his bag as he puts on his cloak and hat at the same time. His apprentice is still faintly tracing the shape of his lips with the tip of her fingers, looking way too beautiful in the sunlight, and Asra really, really wishes he could kiss her.

She learns something, she supposes. That she really, really wishes she could kiss him. That while she is bad at hiding how much she wants him here with her, he’s even worse at making himself look like he wants to go. She takes comfort in that information, stores it away together with all the other bits and pieces she manages to get out him, and she tries to convince herself she is content with just that. It works for her as well as it does for him thinking that staying away solves anything.

She tries to remember why she owns things she doesn’t remember buying or receiving, why some of the books she picks up from the shelves for the first time in her life bear her name in her own handwriting on the front page. She fights off headaches on her own, on the bathroom floor gluing her forehead to the cold tiles. She suffers, but with no results. When Asra comes home, all smiles and travel worn, she can’t find it within her to open her mouth, to say what’s actually been bothering her – but he doesn’t chastise her on her unfinished studies either. They dance around the very obvious elephant in the room, each time putting more and more importance on the whole business.

She’s curious; it’s one of her qualities that scare Asra the most. She’s kind to a fault, but having no memories of harm might make on be so, and she can’t find it in herself to refuse a cry of help. In a land far away, distanced from his apprentice on the day she might need him most, Asra feels the regret of his actions keenly. He has no Faust to anchor him to his task, and the pointlessness of his quest aches acutely in his chest. He buries his face in his scarf, allows his tears to fall on the material, as he moves forward, one step at a time.

It’s easy to like her, he imagines. She asks questions like her whole life depends on the answers, and she throws herself into her task with a passion that can excite even the most indifferent of hearts. She’s understanding, holds no real grudges and her reactions are authentic – at the price of having everyone else he knows making a blush bloom on her face. In a land far away, he imagines her navigating through the palace and its intrigues, and the need to be there and help and the knowledge that he’d be nothing but dead weight to her skills clash inside his heart.

He’d ignore it, like he always does. He’d remind himself how he’s the one kissing away her memories, how he’d never given her this one chance: to ask, to make a knowing choice. It’s partly because he’s tired and he somehow already misses her (though, he knows, logically, that that’s exactly why he should be away, he can’t -), and partly because she called. Asra has never been good at refusing her something, not when she asks so seriously. Not when she returns, night after night, back to him. Like she always does, even without her memories: carving her way back to his side. He shall do the same.

It turns out that, reaching out to grab her hand is the easiest thing he has ever done. How truly selfish of him – and yet he cannot stop the relieved sigh, the familiarity in his gestures as he pulls her into a hug, the way in which his heart immediately feels lighter at the sight of her. It’s not hard at all to admit what he’s been feeling on all his travels before this one, and on this one as well: that he misses her terribly, each and every time. In a land far away, with her right beside him, the explanations, even if still stark, fall out of his mouth with a force he cannot really stop.

It’s hard to make out what he feels, at first, besides his utter overflowing love. _Pride._

She needs a few seconds to understand his request, to read his disgusted expression at the title she’s been calling him by for years. She opens her mouth, tries again, this time understanding exactly what she does and feeling a surge of pleasure in knowing she can please him.

“Asra.”

He stumbles over his invitation, the first time he actually even considers taking her on one of his travels, and the eagerness with which she responds embarrasses her, makes him laugh with so much happiness that he’s hard to look at, brimming with familiarity, feeling that she has managed to make him laugh like that before, but not exactly knowing when and how.

She’d like to explain to him exactly how fascinated she is by what he’s allowing her to see, even as she’s not talking about likeable creatures or a beautiful starry sky, unlike any she’s seen back at home. She risks a glance in his way, takes in his relaxed posture, the way in which it seems like all his walls came crashing down, allowing her the sight of his smile, understanding just how well he fits in the decorum, how he’s the best part of this realm far away.

Halfway into the conversation, neither is quite as sure that Asra still talks about why anyone in general would like her, and not his own personal reasons. His words burn straight to her face.

And yet, she doesn’t mind his arms around her, and not even the strange natural effects that apparently her presence brings to a world unknown, because he is _here, here, here_ – and he hasn’t let go yet, and he is **here**.

She barely registers the rain, her attention stolen by his arm snaking around her waist. She breathes in, basking into his ravished looks and she’d like to follow the trail of that water drop on his lips with her own. She looks up at him, searching for admission – and the hope burning in his eyes pain her. She pushes, mad at herself for not remembering something he has to bear alone, for not doing this earlier, and he goes willingly, pliant under her fingers and needs.

The kiss is soft at first, a bit unsure – but this is _Asra_ she is kissing and nothing else in the world matters after that one single thought. Instinct takes over, her lips pressing more urgently to his, her tongue surging forward, desire ignited when he replies in kind, desperately even, his fingers biting almost painfully in her skin. She pants into the empty air between them, leans her head back to give him enough space to continue the trail of kisses on her body. His body shakes, the moment broken, and she gulps down a needy moan.

She tries not to judge too harshly the hasty departure afterwards; she locks the treasured moment deep in her heart, hopes against all hope that her mind will not take away again something this precious.

And – oh, she might really love Faust the best.

It turns out that, returning back to her, fully and completely, it’s the easiest thing he has ever done, alongside the hug that follows. It throws off her composure, having so many witnesses around to notice their reunion, so he grins in her hair before letting go, pleased beyond himself by this one thing.

She doesn’t know what to make out of other’s forgetfulness. There are secrets too powerful for her to even start and comprehend without his guidance, and she refuses to push Asra to explain things that she maybe has no business knowing in the first place. She focuses on his presence then, the one constant in the whirlwind of intrigue around her, and she very much tries to ignore the tingling at the top of her fingers, or the pleading pout of her lips.

Asra’s looser with his tongue, more comfortable around her. His _always_ now carries lives she only knows she’s lived, and any reference he makes to their shared past is cloaked in the revelation that it carries heavier meaning then initially intended. She doesn’t mind it, not really. Not when his fingers tie with hers, when his presence is the only thing that feels right.

Well, maybe that of the baker too, though she can’t help but feel betrayed at his happiness when Asra promises to take her along this time. She remembers herself sulking around his store, eating Asra’s share as well when he was away on his travels, wondering out loud when she will be considered ready for the trip that, back then, she was sure would completely change her life.

It’s nice to know that, up to a degree, she has been completely right.

He loves it when she indulges in his impulses, when she complies with his requests, however childish they might be. He supposes it’s reassuring to know that, in spite of everything, they’d always manage to know each other.

_He’d recognize her by touch alone, by smell; he’d know her blind, by the way her breath came. He would know her in death, at the end of the world._

His desire for her to share the same feelings burns in his throat, turns him half desperate with need. Plastering on a smile and letting the words overflow, familiar because he’s felt them for so long, is nothing compared to it.

He hates that word: _again_. His whole life can be fit into that one single, short word – and he’d kill so he won’t have to hear it ever again, experiment its meaning so acutely. And still, if it’s love, it might not be too bad. If it’s her, he wouldn’t mind it at all.

His smile is a ghost at her neck, and her soft laugh in his ear is a blessing in itself. He’s not leading and she is not following, and it is the most comfortable they ever felt in each other’s presence in a very long time.

It surprises her sometimes, how attentive to her needs Asra and his familiar are. The past is a terribly scary thing to talk about, but she cannot imagine it’s any easier on the only man that actually knows anything about it. It’s always been like this: them dancing together through life, stepping on each other’s toe with each painful and ignorant remark, but arms always hooked together, weight supported. She might know her worth, might understand his admiration – but she has never minded having him lead.

She thinks it might say something about them – how they can allow themselves to _love_ only when soaking wet after stressful situations. But his laughter is the most beautiful sound she ever heard, and no matter how hard she braces for it, there’s no headache coming. There’s a warm wave of gratitude washing over her, the memory so painfully delicious now that she has it back, now that she rewrote it right and being able to call it as it is: progress.

She doesn’t know how to comfort him, how to accept the embrace she’s wished for for so long. Her fingers brush through his hair, her lips so, so close to his neck; his own just a flutter of a touch at her cheek. It feels so intimate, so delightfully needed; her breath catches in her throat, her eyes fluttering close at his strong hand at her back, squeezing ever tighter.

“I’m here, Asra,” she says, because there’s nothing else she could say to calm him down.

“I’m just making sure.”

His words die in her shirt, as he shifts around to lying on top of her, heartbeat under his ear. From where she holds him, she cannot see the kiss, his gentle touches coming. Her pulse flutters; it makes him laugh again, though there’s no real force behind. She can feel him squeeze her tighter, even if there is no space left between their bodies.

It’s hard to think that somewhere, way back in time, he has lost the lover he has known and loved once. And yet he had pulled himself together, built her up all over again, and stayed by her side all along. It’s not like she would ever allow anything to happen to her, not now, not when –

“You worry too much,” is all she can manage to say, because anything would ring hollow against his pain.

She can’t do much yet but kiss his suffering away, and even if wet to the bone and so close that not even a tarot card would fit between their bodies, it is their most chaste touch. She thanks, from the bottom of her heart, magic for bringing them together, for giving them an excuse, and a purpose. There are hundreds of changes brimming under her skin, threatening to destroy her inner balance, and the world follows right behind, forcing her to rediscover it anew.

But despite all the magic and all the beauty around her – Asra is the brightest thing around her by far.

She hates secrets. _She has eyes, you know?_ She can notice how each and every one of them, how every subject they breach in their discussions, sit heavily on Asra’s shoulders, put a worried line on his forehead. There are so many things going on that even he doesn’t know about, and it’s a scary thought indeed.

He wishes they could go – like he promised so many times. His lover trembles in his arms, deep in thought.

“Okay.”

Asra has a tendency to hug her breathless, but this time, alongside his relieved sighs are also the fervent thanks, whispered in her ear with oh so much gratefulness. By the time they separate, he is smiling. In having him talk of his travel tales, her fingers interlaced with his, is a domesticity so comfortable, unlike any moments they experienced even while sharing a household. This is them at their best, them alongside the wide world. She wants to weep with happiness.

She always kind of choked up each time she had to go out in the city on her own: too loud and too crowded, too different from the pleasant comfort of the enclosed world of the shop, where she doesn’t have to keep introducing herself to people,   each time ignoring stares that felt offending on her body. There’s really nothing like being around Asra, her chest overflowing with trust and love at each and every sight of him.

“If I was with you, I could probably go on forever.”

It’s true, and it echoes her own feelings – but he shouldn’t say it, not with so much easiness, like it’s the only truth he believes in, like he cannot notice the halt in her steps, the red growing in her cheeks.

Beasts are simpler: they don’t require her name, don’t require long introductions or past successes. The only thing that creature wants from her is validation; that they’ve been together at a time, and of that she can have no doubt. She wonders, in that moment, how much she changed exactly, if even her own smell is different. She thinks, at that time, of Asra – and his unwavering support.

_You smell the same. Hope and Pain._

She cannot look at him, not when she knows part of both (she likes to think) is because of her. She is mainly confused: her own feelings clashing in her heart. She revels in his presence though, his chest at her back in a most comfortable position, his arms reassuring around her. She lets her palm pet the animal, struggling to grasp a semblance of calm.

When the beast first soars into the sky, she lets out a delighted shriek, Asra laughing behind her, but tightening his hold around her nonetheless. By the time they reach their destination, she’s sore and tired, unfamiliar with long rides, but excited nonetheless in front of the new location.

She wakes up first, spends embarrassingly long amounts of time staring at Asra’s sleeping face. This is all she knows; she startles herself with the realization: Asra and all that he ever offered her. Besides him, nothing else matters. The dream, the memory, just reinforces her place by his side. It’s nice to know that she has that: a place where she belongs.

She takes in the plants around and in the house with such childish fascination and pleasure in her eyes that it warms him up to his toes. In the end, the small amount of sleep, in favour of restoring this place to its natural glory, was worth it. They spend the time inside, cooped together, away from any distraction from the outside world; it reminds her of the days when he just brought her back, when she was fervently bowed over her magic books, trying to master everything in one go. Though, she doesn’t wishes those days back: she adores how much Asra’s been smiling the past couple of days, how her back keeps getting straighter with every praise he gifts her.

There’s one other thing she adores: how honest he is nowadays. She wouldn’t be able to admit out loud all these embarrassing things that he talks about with so much easiness and seriousness, even pride. Yes, she might have gone out of her way looking for his favourite spice to add to her food while he was gone, but never would she have imagined him to do as well, hundreds of miles away from her as he was.

_Spirits, she loves him._

It’s with that realization that she kisses his cheek, teasing, taking him by surprise.

“You know, Asra, you don’t have to ask for another kiss. It’s yours for taking, always.”

His grin turns into a tender smile, as she pulls him in to give him exactly what he wants. His cheeks are hot under her palms, his blush still visible when they part. _Unbelievable,_ she huffs in frustration, getting on her tiptoes to kiss him again, deeper this time, to make him understand exactly how much she wished for the freedom to kiss him as she pleased.

She can’t really concentrate during their training: both past frustration and thoughts running to wilder places. And yet, when asked, when needed, she is kind to a fault – and Asra can’t quite keep the fondness from his face.

It seems that wherever they might be, the world tips its balance wrongly. The ground shifts beneath them, groaning with the strain – and yet the only thing she can focus on is the despair in Asra’s voice as he’s calling out to her, as he searches for something she’s not sure she has, she’s not sure she can give. Yet, he’s happy, he’s relieved, he’s _laughing_ – and so is she.

The townsfolk welcome them with arms wide open, all smiles and shoulder pats, and she takes comfort in knowing that, when away, Asra still had this occasionally, a place of rest. She’s barely surprised that they know something about him that she doesn’t, but silently berates herself for forgetting, rather than not knowing in the first place.

It’s rather easy; asking for more.

“Do you want to dance with me?”

His arms are around her as soon as he makes up his mind, pulling her into swirls and twists, her body following along with his steps, allowing him to lead her into song after song, happy laughter erupting from his chest when he tries something riskier and she somehow manages to keep up. Even as her forehead is glowing and her breath turns more laboured, she doesn’t want to stop, and it takes him a bit of tactical coaxing to return her under the cooler shade of the trees.

It’s a taste of happiness and freedom like none she has ever experienced before – and she tells herself, as she succeeds and fails in one go, that she shouldn’t be selfish. Asking for more feels like tempting fate, but when he asks, how can she not answer him in earnest?

Having him on top on her… having him _full stop_ is the biggest honour of her life.

“You won’t ever have to hold back again, not from me,” she says between kisses, panting in his face and biting her lower lip, suddenly self-conscious about them all over again. He follows her lips, half dazed, his hands hungry at her thighs, and she lets her fingers trace his chest.

But he parts, thinking – _and why is he thinking_ – and his words snap her out of her pleasure, bring her back to the troubles just outside their door.

“We’re stronger together than apart, right?” Her voice is still barely above a whisper, but her forehead connected to his ground him.

“Yes. Infinitely.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> That one paragraph in italics is directly taken from the novel 'The Song of Achilles' by Madeline Miller, in case it was familiar to you.  
> Also! I'm super curious what all of you named your apprentice? Mine's Giselda - a 'on the spot inspiration', but I'd love to hear your chosen names as well!  
> If you enjoy what I'm doing, consider donating to my [ko-fi page](https://ko-fi.com/teavious)! If you enjoy _how_ I'm doing it, leave a request with your donation, and I will write it for you! Thanks for reading, let's talk on [tumblr](http://teavious.tumblr.com/) or [twitter!](https://twitter.com/_teavious/)


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